


Winter Winds

by AnotherNamelessGhoul



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cold Weather, Coughing, Hypothermia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Pneumonia, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherNamelessGhoul/pseuds/AnotherNamelessGhoul
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are stuck in a tavern in a heavy winter storm, Jaskier is ill and Geralt is consumed with guilt, in his quiet, don't-understand-feelings way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 603





	1. Chapter 1

In retrospect, he'd been a little hard on Jaskier. Jaskier had been dragging his feet all day, complaining of a stuffy nose and an itch in his throat, complaining of the weather, of being too cold, of anything else he could think of. He'd been sniffling dramatically behind Roach until Geralt had lost his patience and told him he could go back to the tavern himself if he was that unfit to follow.

Now it was nearly nightfall and there was no sign of the bard. It wasn't like him to go off moping like that, especially not when there was food and drink and a bed to be had. A late fall storm had blown up and cold, pelting rain mixed with sleet soaked everything, and still Jaskier didn't return. Geralt retreated to his room, deciding to give it one more hour before he went out into the storm himself. 

As he was pulling his coat and boots on, worry tugging at his gut, there was a faint little knock at his door. Geralt pulled the door open so quickly and with such force that it nearly sent the bard on the other side tumbling face-first into the room. Geralt caught him on instinct, righting him and letting him steady himself until he got his feet back beneath him.

"Jaskier!"

The man was head to toe trembling, soaked to the bone with much of his hair and clothing going stiff with ice. He stumbled his way into the room proper. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice thin and also trembling, "I turned the wrong way. Couple of times actually."

"Jaskier, come sit down."

Jaskier made to take off the first layer of his soaked clothing but his fingers had lost all deftness and they slipped off of the buttons again and again. Without hesitation Geralt took to undressing him, tossing the sodden garments to the corner. Usually, Jaskier would have made some sort of comment or at least raised an eyebrow or some lude gesture but he just stood there silent, slumping more and more as he lost the will to stand.

After he'd been completely stripped, Geralt tugged him to sit, realizing that he wasn't going to do it on his own. He toppled immediately over into Geralt's side, apologizing but making no effort to lift his head from the Witcher's ribcage.

"Let me see your hands." He picked up one of Jaskier's hands, turning them over in his own, appraising. "No frostbite. No real damage done." But very, very cold. He started to rub them in between his own, cupping his hand around Jaskier's much smaller ones and blowing warm air into them. "I'm going to call for a bath," he told Jaskier. Jaskier seemed to be only intent on stilling his shivering, not registering much else. Geralt propped him into the pillows of the bed and went out.

He felt almost guilty getting into the bath himself, when he wasn't the one half-frozen, but he was afraid to leave Jaskier in it alone, lest he let himself stay limp and slide under the water. He pulled Jaskier into his lap, again expecting something snarky but getting nothing other than mumbled apology. Jaskier cried out when the warm water started to bring back the feeling to his cold extremities, burning even though it was a comfortable temperature, and Geralt could see him bite back a complaint and press his eyes shut against it instead. Guilt coiled tight in his gut. He took warm water and cupped it to pour over Jaskier's hair, melting the ice there. When the water started to go cold, he lifted himself out, waited a moment for Jaskier to pull himself up and then decided to lift him. The lack of any kind of effort the bard was putting up was the most alarming part. Just being cold shouldn't have rendered him as weak and pliant as a newborn foal.

And then Jaskier coughed, the sound rattling somewhere deep in his chest and then turning into a thick wheeze. He coughed until Geralt was afraid he'd faint, and he lay his hand heavy on the spot between Jaskier's shoulderblades, anchoring him until it passed and he drew in a shuddering breath. Geralt remembered all of the complaints earlier, the ones he had eventually stopped hearing. Fuck.

"Bedtime," he declared. The best thing he could do was make sure that the warmth staid in Jaskier's body, and try and get him some sleep to fight off whatever was coming on. They could figure out medicine in the morning. Jaskier made to fish out his bed roll from their packs and Gerslt caught his arm, stopping him.

"The bed."

"You can have it." Jaskier muttered. His voice was ragged and cracked.

"We can both have it. Lay down."

Jaskier looked startled but complied, making a small sound that couldve meant anything when Geralt wrapped up around him, almost cradling him into his own body heat. He fell asleep right away with his head crooked into the hollow of Geralt's throat and his whole body pressing into Geralt's like two fitting puzzle pieces. Geralt staid awake for a good, long time.

At some point Geralt woke up, at first not realizing why but then coming to the awareness that he was boiling hot. He sat up, tugging the covers with him, and realized that it was Jaskier, still slotted into him, coated in sick-smelling sweat but still trembling. Heat was radiating off of him in waves.

"Jaskier, wake up."

A little moan, nothing else. He stirred as Geralt shook him lightly, finally opened his eyes which shone far too bright and glassy. 

"Don' feel s' great, Ger'lt," he slurred, punctuated by another round of coughing that shook through his body.

"You're sick." As if Geralt had to tell him. "I'm going to get water for tea. Don't. Move."

He had some herbs in his pack, as he always carried travelling with Jaskier. Echinacea, feverfew, yarrow. He'd seen Jaskier sick before; the incident with the Djinn of course, colds here and there, once a particularly nasty stomach bug, but he'd never seen him go down so hard and so fast. First thing in the morning he'd find a healer and he'd fix it. He had to fix it.

He came back to find Jaskier slumped against the pillows, sleeping again or unconscious, breath sounding much more ragged than it should have. Geralt tugged him upwards and his head rolled back, loose, and then forwards.

"Don't pass out." He said sharply, and somehow, Jaskier complied, eyes rolling back to focus. He pressed the tea into the bard's hands, realized what a spectacularly bad idea that was, and held it up to his lips for him. Jaskier took a sip and sighed as the warmth soothed him from the inside, coating his raw throat. 

The light of morning proper was starting to come through the window now, and Geralt could see that they weren't going anywhere. The snow had kept up all night and was still coming down, so hard and fast that he couldn't see more than a few feet. There was probably nearing a foot on the ground.

"Fuck."


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt kept pressing until Jaskier had gotten all of the tea down. Jaskier was far, far too warm against his bare chest and every note in his posture and on his face read pure misery.

"Hurts," he said, casting a pleading look back at Geralt.

"What does?"

"Breathing." He took a sharp wheeze in again, as if to prove a point, pressing a fist into his sternum and closing his eyes. "Burns."

"You better keep doing it though." It was half a joke but it came out decidedly grim. "And if you get any hotter I might have to take you outside and pack you in the snow." 

It seemed less a joke and more an eventuality later when Jaskier woke up from what had been a fitful half-sleep with his eyes wide but vacant of any sort of reason, clawing to hold onto Geralt, crying like his heart would break in half. Geralt let him cling on for dear life, running his hand through the bard's sweat-soaked hair. He didn't know what else to do. He'd, as far as he knew, never seen Jaskier cry before, but now he was wrapped around Geralt's arm with tears streaming down his too-pale face.

"Jaskier, come on," he said, a little too harshly out of fear, and gave him one tight shake. Immediately Jaskier dislodged and pulled himself away from Geralt.

"Please don't leave." And his voice sounded not at all like Jaskier. "Please please don't leave. Don't leave me here."

"Why would I leave you-"

Because he had. Fuck.

"I'm not going anywhere without you."

But the words didn't seem to penetrate. Jaskier kept up his chant like a mantra, trembling and still crying and wheezing ever harder for the next breath in. 

In one quick motion, Geralt grabbed him up, held tight to his chest like one might hold a child. Jaskier wavered for a moment and then went still against him, quiet but still grasping on like Geralt would vanish if he let go for even a moment.

"Gonna find a healer." Geralt wasn't used to being the one to fill the silences. "If we can't leave then there has to be someone with some knowledge in this place. We'll get you fixed up."

The snow was still coming down and it would he several days before they could even think about leaving. Geralt didn't want to consider the alternative.

He moved downstairs holding Jaskier tight. Patrons moved aside as they saw him, and what must they think: the big bad witcher holding a half-dead human like some sort of prize he'd slaughtered. He pulled Jaskier closer and Jaskier wound his fingertips around Geralt's collar and held on. 

"Is there a doctor somewhere?" He called into the thrum. Nobody moved. "A healer. Someone with medical knowledge. We need help."

"I'm not sure I have what's needed here, Witcher," came a voice from one of the back corners, "but I can try."

The patrons parted as if talking to a witcher was enough of a crime to be exiled for. An older woman rose. She took one look at Jaskier, pressed a hand to his cheek and shook her head. "Not good, not good at all. Would be best if we could get out to my practise, but-" and she gestured to the raging storm outside.

Geralt followed her to her room. Jaskier coughed and then didn't stop coughing, a horrible wet sound punctuated by sharp gasps in. Geralt searched for a way to position him that would ease his airways and found nothing. The healer looked grim.

"Fluid in the lungs. Almost surely. You've got one very ill travelling companion, witcher. Here, lay him down on the bed."

Jaskier refused to let go and Geralt had to all but pry his fingers free. It wasn't much of a task, considering how weak Jaskier was at the moment, but it felt like something abominable, just one more terrible betrayal.

"Please no. Please, no." Just above a whisper.

"I'm not. I'm here." He crouched beside the mattress and offered out his hand and let Jaskier thread his fingers through it and grip on tight. Geralt cast his yellow eyes up on the healer, who was rifling through a bag of various herbs and concoctions. "I've failed him once and I don't intend to do it again."


	3. Chapter 3

"Willow bark," the healer said, pulling a small cloth pouch from her bags, "will at least help keep him from cooking from the inside out while we explore courses of action."

Jaskier turned his head sharply against the second cup of tea, in and out of lucidity but fighting valiantly nonetheless. 

"Remember when I threatened to dump you into the snow? That's where we're heading." The worry in Geralt's voice was masked by irritation. Jaskier groaned something that could have been a response and could have been directed at whatever fever dreams had been plaguing him. The healer wrung out a rag wet and cold from the snow outside the door and pressed it to Jaskier's forehead and cheeks. The bard stirred, pulled away from the cold and then some sort of awareness dawned in his eyes and he let out a rattley sigh. Geralt squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, trying and failing to suppress his surprise at the intimacy. He let himself be propped up and held by Geralt as sips at a time of the tea were poured into his mouth. The fact that he was so pliant and uncomplaining continued to be among the most alarming parts of the whole thing.

"How long has he been unwell for?" The healer passed Geralt the cooled rag and continued to rifle through her belongings. Geralt paused. How long had he... he genuinely didn't know. He'd been complaining for a couple of days, but how long had he been slow for, shuffling his feet until Geralt had to halt Roach until he caught up? How long had he been skipping meals because he never seemed to be hungry anymore? How long had he been squeezing just a little closer to the fire every night like his bones were always chilled? 

Geralt let out a long breath and said the only thing that he could: "I hadn't noticed until we stopped and then it seemed to come on suddenly."

"Things like this, they don't just happen. Colds don't turn into pneumonia overnight and without pushing the body." The look she gave him withered him, making him slump down further into the bed, turn his eyes to Jaskier so he didn't have to look at her. "He's just a human, Witcher, and assuming he makes it out of this it would serve you well to learn as much."

"He has to make it out of this."

Geralt didn't like the blue tint that had settled in around Jaskier's lips and the beds of his nails, the way that his blue eyes kept slipping in and out of consciousness, one minute locked on Geralt and the next staring into some great abyss only he could see. Little beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead and roll down his bare chest, which meant that the medicine was going to work on the fever, but that was only part of the problem.

"I don't have the medicine that I need and I don't think I have to tell you the chances of him recovering unaided. Assuming this storm lets up in a day or two..." she rewet the cloth. "We'll do all we can in the meantime." She picked up one of Jaskier's limp arms and pressed her fingers into the pulse point, clucked her tongue. Geralt didn't want to ask what that meant. 

Jaskier went into another coughing fit, hands clenching at anything as if he could find a lifeline to drag him out of it. He wheezed like a broken instrument and Geralt found himself rubbing his back again and holding his own breath waiting for it to pass. When the fit finally subsided, Jaskier's breathing was set in little pained bursts and his face was set in a rictus of panic and pain.

"My potions." Geralt pulled his eyes away from Jaskier and up to the hewler, heart caught in his throat and making it difficult to speak. "I have one that may help. Of course, meant for my metabolism and not his, but-"

"You and I both know that a Witcher's potions are not meant for consumption by a human. You may as well flip a coin if it'll help him or wake the entire tavern up while he wails in pain until he dies." 

"But if we just sit here then we flip a coin and either side he dies."

The healer nodded, slowly. "Then we'll do what we can."


	4. Chapter 4

"We'll dilute it heavily. Humans have a much slower metabolism than you and if we give it to him full strength in his condition now it will almost certainly kill him." The healer took the blood-red potion out of Geralt's hands and moments later handed him back a cup of pink-tinged water. "Assuming this works it should get him well enough to last out this storm. Here, you give it to him, he trusts you."

But should he trust me? Geralt thought bitterly to himself. Misplaced trust had landed him here to begin with. He let out a breath and hooked Jaskier under the arms with one arm and behind the back with the other. He wasn't lucid and it was like hoisting an oversized sack of flour to sit on end. He got him sitting upright with his back pressed against the pillows on the bed propping him and pressed a cold hand against the bard's burning face.

"Come on Jaskier, come back to me."

Nothing, not any sign of acknowledgement. Geralt pressed a thumb to his chapped, raw lips until his jaw slacked and opened, and then he set to trickling the potion in bit by bit until reflex took over and Jaskier swallowed. His face screwed up, even unconscious, and Geralt winced with him. The potions burned going down, even as a witcher that was used to them and probably even as diluted as they were. As soon as Geralt got the entirety of the drink in him, Jaskier started shaking, full body tremors and moaning something that held no meaning to anyone but him. The effects of toxicity, even from such a small amount, magnified by human physiology. Geralt knew that all too well himself. The misery of toxicity would come now, but none of the healing would come for hours. 

"Lay with him," the healer said, and Geralt had almost forgotten that she was there. "It's the least that you can do. Keep him warm and keep an eye on him."

Not nearly enough, Geralt thought. But he lay down on his back and pulled Jaskier to rest on top of him, tugging blankets around them both. The position they were in let him press his face into the pulse point of Jaskier's neck, unobtrusively feel the beat of his heart against the soft skin of his lips. It was much too fast and far from steady, another concerning effect of the potion given.

The healer seemed to have softened a little as Geralt watched her from beneath Jaskier's warm weight. "I won't be out long. Keep watch of him and I'll be back to check on you shortly." And with that she slipped out the door.

Jaskier's back arched sharply and he turned harshly against Geralt, shifting to his side and pressing both hands against his middle, then coughing hard and wheezing, rasping, turning his face away down into the covers, then back into Geralt's neck. The writhing was probably more disconcerting than limp, still Jaskier had been, though Geralt preferred neither of them.

"You just keep breathing," he muttered, though he was sure Jaskier was far beyond hearing. "Don't you dare stop."

Jaskier arched off of the bed again and actually cried out this time, a harsh sound ripping from his raw throat that set him to coughing, and it went on for so long that he really did go blue and the coughs turned into something like little gasps for any air and Geralt didnthe only thing he could think of, which was to thump him a couple of times harshly between the shoulders until he sucked in one huge gasp of air and Geralt's own head swum with relief. 

Gently, more gently than he knew he knew how, he pulled Jaskier into his arms, held him like a baby, held him so tight against him as if it might take any of the hurt. He didn't stop moaning but he did stop trying to pull away from the pain in all directions like he could move his body away from it, and that alone seemed like a plus. He rocked a little, not even thinking about it, just thinking that he had to do something and he felt so powerless. 

That was how the healer came back to them, Geralt aware of nothing else but Jaskier in his arms and counting the cadence of his heartbeat and Jaskier stuck somewhere in his own world of illness. Geralt glanced up, wearily, and nodded to her. She carried a steaming bowl of stew and set it at their table.

"I don't think that he's in any shape for-"

"It's not for him. You need to keep care of yourself, as well. It wouldn't do for me to be stuck with two patients." 

Geralt looked at it and looked at his lack of hands as if he didn't know what to do with himself. 

"Take your time, Witcher. Although I assume it will be far less pleasant when cold." She moved towards him and pressed a hand on his cheek, and he startled but didn't pull back. It was a comforting gesture familiar to someone in his past that he couldn't quite put a hand on in his tired state. He couldn't help but think that he wasn't the one who deserved any sort of tenderness. 

"We're doing all we can," she said, lightly patted him at his jawline, and then moved back to her things, humming as she ground some other herb from her bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially thought this was going to be the last chapter but then I wrote it and there's obviously like, two or three left to go as long as the general interest in it holds. As always that is for reading/commenting!


	5. Chapter 5

3 days. It had been 3 days and Geralt had only slept once, involuntarily, his head falling against Jaskier's as he held him. He'd woken up to clawing panic tearing through his veins and it had taken near an hour for the adrenaline to wear off after he found Jaskier's heartbeat and realized that he was okay. He hadn't gone back to sleep. 

The healer had told him in no uncertain terms that if he was going to wake up that he'd wake up within the three day window that they were closing in on, or not at all. Then there was the matter of finding out if the fever or the potion had cooked his brain in his head. Then she'd gone to attend to someone in childbirth elsewhere in the place and left the two of them alone in a heavy, deathly silence.

He was meditating and trying very, very hard not to think when the first signs of movement came from beside him. He came back to present immediately and stroked a thumb across Jaskier's cheek as his eyes moved behind closed lids and the muscles in his hands twitched as he fought to bring himself back. Cornflower blue eyes drifted open, glassy and then coming into focus onto Geralt's face.

"Are you with me Jaskier?" He asked, trying to keep himself calmed. "C'mon, Jaskier."

Jaskier's first word was a rasped, grated version of Geralt's name, and the second a plea for water. Geralt grabbed his water skin and tilted it to Jaskier's fever-cracked lips. "Slow, slow. You've come too far to choke and suffocate now." He took the water away before Jaskier could make himself sick with it and then, unashamedly, pressed their foreheads together for a moment, breathing in the smell of him, no longer just terrible and acrid sick sweat but also the smell of Jaskier that he'd known underneath it. Jaskier made a small, surprised sound, and Geralt pulled away, almost embarrassed.

"I'm... glad you're awake."

"How long was I not awake for?" 

"Days." 

"I had a dream, you were telling me that-" he seemed to think better of it and stopped. "No, nevermind. But it was a good dream." He coughed harshly into the crook of his elbow, but the fit ended soon enough that it didn't have time to reawaken Geralt's fears. 

"How are you feeling?"

Jaskier paused to consider. "Pretty shit." And then, as if he were afraid to ask, "when are you leaving?"

"We, Geralt said, emphasizing the word, "aren't leaving until the healer says that you can." He pressed a hand to Jaskier's cheeks, felt a warmth there but not the dangerous heat that had been. The fever was near broken. "Maybe not even then. We need to find somewhere to hunker down for the winter."

"We?"

"Yes." 

"Okay. Alright." Jaskier seemed to relax some, letting the tension go out of him. "Thank you."

"Are you hungry?" Geralt chose to ignore the emotions rising.

He thought, taking stock of himself. "I don't know." 

"I'll get you something, then. You'll have to get some strength back." He rose from his seat beside the bed, stretching out stiff muscles. Jaskier reached out and snagged his sleeve, holding onto him a second before realizing what he'd done and letting go, diverting his eyes.

"I'm just going to the kitchen. I'm not leaving. Not without you. Not again. Do you trust me?"

Jaskier nodded, and Geralt slipped out the door, almost missing the mumbled "so then it wasn't a dream" before the heavy door shut behind him.

He came back with a bowl of plain broth. Jaskier tried to sit himself up but failed terribly, muscles shaking with the strain to no effect, barely making it up onto his elbows. Geralt propped him upright against his chest and, seeing how badly Jaskier's hands were shaking still, spooned some broth and brought it to his lips. 

"I'm sorry. This is pathetic." Jaskier mumbled, after trying to take the spoon and dropping it empty against the blankets. "Once the healer gets back, if you don't want-"

"Stop it." He realized that he'd sounded too harsh and he backtracked. "I don't mind it. I want you well." 

He got through a little over a quarter of a bowl and then let his head fall back against Geralt as if it were too heavy to hold up any longer. Better than nothing, he guessed, and better than forcing too much richness on a stomach that hadn't had food for three days. Geralt finished off the broth himself, drinking straight from the bowl before setting it aside. Whatever illness Jaskier had, it wouldn't affect him as a witcher, and he'd been neglecting himself to care for Jaskier and was near starving now that some of the worry was gone. 

"I'm so tired."

"I imagine." 

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

Without answering, Geralt tugged him back down onto the bed, spooned himself around Jaskier, and himself was asleep before they'd really settled into the pillows.

**Author's Note:**

> As always thanks for reading and send prompts to my tumblr, dandelions-and-white-wolves !!


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